


Chicken Soup for the Horror Fanatic

by facelesshellion



Category: Almost Human
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Very lightly touched on
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-04
Updated: 2013-12-04
Packaged: 2018-01-03 10:28:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1069400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/facelesshellion/pseuds/facelesshellion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When something is scary as a kid, it's easy to grow out of it. But John was never scared as a kid. Not really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chicken Soup for the Horror Fanatic

**Author's Note:**

> Hello again~ Again, sorry that I am not updating my long fics and am instead writing one-shots like a maniac. I promise that the new chapter is coming along, it just needs some tweaking and it'll be out sooner or later. 
> 
> Anywho! Almost Human is still stealing my heart a bit more every day so I couldn't resist. My friend and cousin are both insane horror movie fanatics that have watched scary movies since they were 2 and never afraid, and John struck me as being just like them, so I figured why not? 
> 
> Thank you for clicking and reading! I hope you all enjoy!

When John Kennex was a little boy, he believed in fairy tales and ghost stories. He loved to hear about princesses and knights, like every child, but he also loved to hear about the boogeyman and what goes bump in the night. 

Rapunzel's long, golden hair held just as much interest as the Grudge's dark, matted locks that dragged across the floor. Exclamations of passionate joy in Disney movies were equal to Paranormal Activity-esque shrieks. He could mimic both perfectly. 

Any time his dad would indulge him, far from the eyes of his strict mother, and turn on a horror movie, John would shriek in all the right places, then declare at the end, "I would never fall for that! They never pay attention, but I'd be smarter than that." 

His dad would smile, ruffle his hair, and tuck him into bed. "Of course not. But the movies wouldn't be fun without the characters being scared, and if they had a brave character like you in there, there wouldn't be a movie."

Very seriously, John would consider this before nodding. "I guess that makes sense."

The old grandfather clock would chime from its corner in the living room. His dad would kiss him tenderly on the forehead. "Time for brave boys to hit the hay, it appears. I'm right next door if you need me." 

John, oblivious as only children can be, would ask, "Need you for what?" 

"To protect you from the monsters in your nightmares. Duh, kiddo." 

John would squeal as he was tickled, settle as soon as the lights went out and his starry-night projector turned on, and fall asleep as quickly as it took him to get under the covers. 

His dad, laughing at his brave little boy, would shut the door and crawl into his own bed while waiting for his wife to return from one of her later shifts. 

John never took his father up on his offer. And by the time he wanted to, his dad's room, instead of being next door, was six feet under the newest layer of soil. 

Weeks after waking up from a two-year nap, John would give anything to curl up next to his dad and go back to the days where scary was fun. 

"Scary" no longer consisted of ghosts moving objects unseen but real people being moved by real people while John remains as blind to the culprits as he had to the ghosts when he was a boy. 

"Scary" no longer consisted of gooey, sticky, and fake intestines dribbling out of zombies but gooey, sticky, and real intestines he tries to push back into a body that is already dead and won't be reanimated any time soon. 

"Scary" no longer consisted of blood made out of red cornstarch that crystallizes onto mannequins' bodies but blood pouring out of his own not-there-anymore-leg that he can still feel throbbing in time to his pulse in his dreams if he doesn't use the tiny red gems he confiscated off of a perp. 

And that first case back, when everything is too scary and hurts too much and the memories are too sharp, he walks off of the crime scene wordlessly, curls up on the floor of the backseat of his cruiser, and pretends he's that fearless, brave little boy that didn't know how to be afraid. 

* * * * * 

John doesn't know if someone saw his breakdown and reported it, but the next day, suddenly no MX's are available and he has a DRN for a partner. 

He'd be angry if the chief didn't look so worried. She wanted him back, but he's pretty sure she wanted the old John Kennex that wasn't icy by betrayal. The glances filled with pity are always followed by guilty ones because she knows that John wants pity and sympathy like a worm wants a fish hook. 

The DRN might be her apology to him; He doesn't want a synthetic as a partner, and a DRN is the closest thing to human she can get him. 

Working with Dorian makes life a little easier. Not enough that he stops waking up with a scream lodged in his throat, kept quiet only by terror that someone will hear him. Not enough that old scenes from movies and old scenes from memories stop flashing neon signs with "PTSD" written on them every five minutes in a case. 

But Dorian can read him, can take his poor social skills and give as good as he gets when John insults him (purposefully or not. The 'or not' comebacks are usually less harsh than the 'purposefully' ones.) 

Their partnership, unconventional at best and insane at worst, works. Dorian pushes to get what he wants and no more. John pretends that he feels perfectly comfortable working with a robot that can think for itself enough to want things. 

They solve crimes and go out to eat and generally act like police partners should. John has to explain human things to Dorian and Dorian explains random bits of scientific information he finds interesting to John, but overall, they have a good thing going. 

John will always miss the easy camaraderie he had with Martin. Dorian's a good guy, though, and he helps keep police work from getting "real scary" in a way that makes John wonder why humans even try at these jobs when they could just make an army of Dorians. 

Suffice to say, because John, made of strong bones and rough skin, can hold his composure and Dorian, made of cold metal and rubbery skin, can keep situations under control, John can continue hiding under the covers at bedtime without anyone the wiser for a solid couple of weeks. 

* * * * * 

He would have been fine if that punk hadn't had that fucking gun. 

The scene, gruesome but not damnable, would have had the kid being questioned and probably free to go with a slap on the wrist. A hefty slap with a wooden paddle, but not jail, at least. 

The man, a former, low-level drug dealer, lay motionless on the ground, blood long dried on the yellowing carpeting. All the kid had to do was give the gun to him and say it was an accident and/or self-defense. John can work the system, but having a twelve-year-old claim self-defense can't really be disproved if the kid is smart enough to know how to lie. MXs' lie detector-BS rarely works on kids because even if they do tell the truth, their nervous pulses make the readings go haywire. 

That would have been the easiest scenario. 

However, because the twelve-year-old had seen too many cop movies, he had to start firing everywhere the second they walked in on him packing a ridiculously large duffel bag with junk food. 

The bullet that grazed his arm? Not even worth a blink. 

The bullet whizzing past his head? No problem. 

The tiny piece of metal that clanged against his synthetic leg in the single vulnerable spot on the bottom of its knee and caused it to shut down was a different story. 

Dorian disarms the kid and has handcuffs on him seconds before John collapses to the floor, hyperventilating. 

"John, you're okay. Look, your leg's just fine, just needs to be tweaked-" Dorian moves as if to kneel, and John keens, loudly and wordlessly. Dorian stops moving all together. "John?" 

He can't answer, because all he wants to do is scream but he can't because then he'll be no better than the B-rated actresses in his favorite horror movies and he swore he'd be better than that and not let the monsters find him. 

Dorian shushes the kid whining on the opposite end of the room, eyes fixed to John. His patchwork circuitry lights up blue and if John could breathe he'd cringe in preemptive embarrassment. 

"John, I know you're scared. And that's okay. We all feel like that sometimes. But I need you to be strong for me, because I can fix your leg right now if you'll let me. I think that'll help how you're feeling right now, man." 

John flinches, clutching his flesh knee and his sparking synthetic knee closer to his chest when Dorian moves forward. Patiently, he sits back and waits another moment before speaking again. 

"Come on, man. Be brave. I have your back, you know that." 

Dorian's voice, calm, smooth like honey, breaks through his daze just long enough for Dorian to move in and start working on his leg. 

With a fizz, hiss, and pop, the leg's hologram reappears to seem more human and John, involuntarily, lets out a choked sob. 

* * * * * 

Dorian fakes John's voice enough to call off sick for the rest of the day after he shoves the handcuffed and teary-eyed kid to an MX to handle and takes John back to his apartment. 

The drive, silent except for the quiet hum of the engine, passes quickly. John never makes a comment about Dorian driving his car, about how learning through databanks isn't the same as learning by experience. 

John unlocks his door wordlessly when Dorian urges him to. The lights flicker on immediately when they walk in. 

"You have a very nice home. It fits you." Dorian says. With a hand holding John's elbow, he walks John to the sofa. "I'm going to get you a glass of water. Are you hungry?" 

John doesn't answer, eyes locked on his knees. 

He returns from John's kitchen with, as promised, a glass of water, and, not as promised, a plate of cookies. 

The gesture, while sweet, doesn't move John anymore than any of Dorian's previous attempts. 

Again, the blue circuitry lights up, Dorian's expression blank, until he sighs. 

"You can be quite frustrating. Why do I put up with you?" He sits next to John and throws an arm around him. "Seriously man, of all the cops to wake me up, it had to be you. I, personally, would have much preferred Detective Stahl. She has class." 

His hand, cold and obviously belonging to an android, rubs circles into John's shoulder. 

"Or even the chief. I'd rather be her secretary than dealing with you, most days." 

"Shut it, tin man." 

"Ah! He speaks," Dorian smiles, patting John's shoulder as he lets him go. "Nice to see you're actually here. Drink your water." 

"You don't have to stay here and babysit. I am a grown man." 

"I'll believe that after you drink your water. Or until that movie I wanted to catch is done. I can't leave now or I'll miss the first half hour on the walk back to Rudy's." 

"What movie?" John leans back into the sofa and tilts his head back. 

"Nightmare on Elm Street. According to online forums, it's one of the best horror movies ever." 

"It is." 

"Guess we'll see, won't we?" Dorian flicks the TV on and the lights dim automatically in response. 

John, incredulous, presses a hand against Dorian's "sternum." 

"What?" 

"If you're going to watch a movie," John drawls each word carefully. "You need to relax. That means leaning back and not sitting like you're in the chief's office after screwing up epically." 

Dorian obliges, and in a move practiced by teenage boys (and girls, ever more recently) everywhere, his arm plops behind John's head on the couch. 

Any other day, John would snidely ask, "Trying to pick me up, hotshot?" And Dorian would chuckle and either remove his arm or leave it and respond just as snidely. 

But it's been a long day, John is "sick", and he hadn't realized how much he missed watching scary movies with his dad until Tina Gray's first scream. 

He pulls his knee and "knee" up against his chest and ducks into Dorian's side. Just a little. And if he yells a little too loudly after the first cheap scare-- 

Well, Dorian doesn't have anyone to tell anyway. Even if his happily smug smirk and tight-but-not-too-tight grip grate on his nerves a little. 

And the man the little brave boy became reveled in his happy-fear for the first time in years.


End file.
